50 in 50

"I ain't making fun of yore buildin'," Bron said, climbing out of the car. "I seen a lot worse on other frontier planets — fallin' down and leaning that kind of thing. You folks put up a good strong buildin' here. Lasted a lot of years and it's gonna last a lot more." He patted the wall, in a friendly manner, then looked at the palm of his hand. "Though it could sure do with a bit of a shave or a haircut."

Governor Haydin stamped into the entrance, growling to himself, and Bron followed, smiling with simple contentment. The hallway cut through the entire building — he could see the rear entrance at the far end — and doors opened off it on both sides. The Governor pushed through a door marked NO ENTRANCE, and Bron followed close behind him.

"Not in here, you fool," Governor Haydin complained loudly. "This is my private office. The next door, that's the one you want."

"Now, I'm right sorry about that," Bron said, backing out under the firm pressure of the hand on his chest. The room was a sparsely furnished office with living quarters visible through the open door on the far wall. The only thing of real interest was the girl who was slumped in the armchair. She had coppery red hair, was slim, and appeared to be young. He could tell nothing more about her because she had her face buried in a handkerchief and seemed to be crying. The door closed in his face.

The next entrance led him into a larger office divided across the middle by a waist-high counter. He rested his weight on the un-painted wood and read the doodled inscriptions with some interest until a door opened on the other side and a girl entered. She was young and slim and had coppery red hair and even redder eyes. She was undoubtedly the girl he had seen in the Governor's office.

"I'm real sorry to see you cryin', Miss," he said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I am not crying," she said firmly, then sniffed. "It's just… an allergy, that's all it is."

"You should have a doc give you some shots…"

"If you will kindly state your business, I'm rather busy today."

"Now, I don't want to bother you none, what with the allergy and being busy. If there is anyone else I can see?"

"No one. I — and those banks of computers — are the entire governmental staff. What is it you want?"

"I want to file a homestead claim, and my name is Bron Wurber."

She took his extended hand briefly, then dropped it as though it were red hot and grabbed up a stack of papers.

"I'm Lea Davies. Fill out all these forms and do not leave any blanks. If you have any questions, ask me before you proceed. You can write, can't you?" she asked, noting his grim frown of concentration as he examined the papers.

"I write a very fair hand, ma'am, so don't you worry none." He took a well-chewed pencil stump from his shirt pocket, added a few more indentations, then went to work.

When he had finished she checked the papers, made some corrections, then handed him a sheaf of maps. "These show all the nearer sites that are open for homesteading; they're marked in red. The land that will suit you best depends, of course, on the kind of crops you intend to raise."

“Pigs," he said, smiling enthusiastically, though there was no smile in return. "I'll just wander around and look at these parcels, then come back and tell you when I find the right one. My thanks, Miss Davies."

Bron folded the papers into a thick wad, which he stuffed into his hip pocket as he left. In order to reach his herd, waiting near the spaceport, he had to walk back through the center of Trowbri City, which was a city in name only. Clouds of dust spurted up as he stumped along its single street, clumsy in his heavy boots. All of the buildings had a temporary-permanent look. They had been built quickly but never replaced, since more new structures had been in constant demand for the growing town. Prefabricated buildings and pressurized fabric huts were interspersed with wood-frame structures and rammed-earth buildings. There were a lot of these — just clayey soil dumped between wooden forms and pounded down hard. When the forms were removed, the walls were painted with plastic so that they would not dissolve in the rain. In spite of this, many of them had a squat, rounded look as they sank slowly back into the ground from whence they had sprung. Bron passed small stores and a garage. The factories were on the outskirts of the town, and beyond them the farms. A barbershop, advertised by the universal symbol of a red-and-white-striped pole, was ahead, and a small group of men were leaning against its wall to hold it up.

"Hey, pig-boy," one of them said loudly as he passed, "I'll trade you a hot bath for a couple of pork chops." The rest of the loafers laughed loudly at what they apparently considered wit.

Bron stopped and turned. "My," he said, "this town must shore be boomin' if it can afford to support so many young fellers who don't have jobs.”